#megalophobia warning too?

[thebiscuiti]

First time doing drawings for Mermayyyyyy. Late as hell, but better late than never

I know people usually make cool detailed drawings for each prompt, but I have neither the time nor the energy to finish these

So- sketchesssss

Day 1: Marine Biologist

Day 2: Carnivorous

Day 3: House/Dwelling

And finally, Day 4: Healer

Oh, btw, go check out MossyPidder! They're the one who made these prompts

[grislyintentions]

|| HC- Diviner's Fate ||

In reference to the Glimpses into the Beyond manuscript penned by Fuxuan herself, she spares little effort in reminding/warning other diviners that any actions that imply attempts to predict Yaoshi's fate will be treated as an unforgivable felony.

Despite the considerable leniency that is offered to those who attempt to predict the fates of other Aeons (still illegal), the Ten-Lords Commission equates acts of trying to predict Yaoshi's as a crime equal to the Ten Unpardonable Sins. Diviners found guilty of said transgression will be punished strictly- provided they are still alive after committing said crime as those who have tried have all met tragic fates of their own.

Given these factors, there are two possible outcomes that befall Diviners who attempt to predict Yaoshi's fate:

Mental Collapse (Subsequent development of Acute Megalophobia)

Divination is by no means true omniscience. It is a practise of making calculations based on recorded instances of data and the Diviner's ability to map out multiple possibilities based on the movements, logic as well as thought processes from it.

As witnessed in March's story quest, the Matrix of Prescience is used by diviners to draw information from the past to predict the future by literally placing the observing person in said variable scenarios to derive accurate outcomes, albeit heightened by Fuxuan's third eye.

The Matrix actively draws the future it observes from Chaos.

So how does one even begin to calculate and predict the fate of Aeons who fill the skies like celestial bodies? A being that is incomparably huge, move according to their own Path with a transcendent mind? How does one even define chaos of such magnitude?

Both devices as well as the living mind has their limits. To withstand, hold and interpret something of this magnitude is realistically impossible to accomplish without breaking something in the process either by fragmenting of memory or mental collapse in efforts to preserve one's well being ie: amnesia, memory repressing etc.

In such a scenario, it is likely that diviners may experience a similar phenomenon. Their added ability to literally "visualise" observations may also cause the Matrix of Prescience to backfire and create a massive toll mentally. And they could thus develop an accute fear of vastness when bombarded with everything at once (fear of outer space, bodies of water, atmosphere so on so forth). TLDR: A living hellscape they cannot avoid. Resuming divination duties would be impossible with the emotional association, PTSD and trauma. ON TOP of having to be punished for committing what is essentially a crime.

Victim of Parasitism (Eventual Brain Death)

To essentially divine an Aeon's fate is to quite literally observe and visualise oneself walking down their path. While it might seem achievable at first, this places the human psyche in a very tenuous position.

They have to possess a certain level of emotional understanding in order to navigate the accurate steps. When tied with their own cultural complicated feelings towards Yaoshi, it can all form a level of cognitive dissonance and dissociation in order to process things.

With reference to how the "Aeons" in Herta's simulated universe could capture notice of the Trailblazer from his actions, why would this then be a stretch? Especially when the Luofu is a place already filled with Yaoshi's blessings, along with those who actively pay homage to their practises, it is all too easy for the Aeon to take notice of repeated engagement from a certain device.

Diviners who try to place themselves in the mindset of an all too generous Aeon will likely be further poisoning themselves with not only knowledge but also a stronger unfiltered emotional connection with Yaoshi.

With parasitic comparisons of my Yaoshi portrayal, I like to think that the diviners may suffer a similar fate to the ants who have the unfortunate displeasure of crossing the path of the Ophiocordyceps unilateralis.

Once infected by the fungi, ants would often alter their behavioural patterns by searching for areas best suited for fungal growth. They then attach themselves to leaves, remaining there to their deaths from which the fungi spores grow and release from the spores in their head. This is something that has devastated multiple ant colonies.

Similarly for diviners, they will remain unawares to the facts that mara symptoms have begun to develop at an erratic rate within them. In the ensuing days to come, they may experience a radical change in ideology, compelling them to follow down Yaoshi's path or join up with the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus.

Those who fight to retain their own lucidity may experience the soul crushing endeavor of losing their mental faculties periodically, feeling their bodies and mind revolt against them. It is a slow, terrifying and debilitating experience that may cause them to take the only means out rather than give in to Yaoshi. Thus, also succeeding temporarily in accomplishing the Aeon's goal of relieving them from 'suffering'. They cannot escape not even in the end.

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Chapter 26: Tegaanalir (Second Chances - Hunter x reader)

Tegaanalir. n. rescue

Chapter Summary: You manage to make it into the mountain fortress, but getting back out? That's another story.

Chapter Warnings: i'm back on my angst bs; this chapter is heavily canon-divergent because i think they should have been able to find where Weyland was off the bat; canon-typical violence; megalophobia; anxiety; k'oyacyi translates literally to "stay alive" as a command for the Mando'a translation; if I missed anything pls lmk!

Word Count: 4,088

< Previous chapter | Next chapter >

When you step out of the ’fresher, Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech await you in the cargo hold. Wrecker and Tech both take one look at your new attire and shake their heads. At his sides, Hunter’s hands curl into fists. Glancing down once more at the pressed, crisp lines of your former Imperial uniform, you grimace. A bitter taste fills your mouth, coating your tongue like oil. 

“I don’t like it either,” you say. “I’ll burn it after we make it out of there. No more reason to hang onto this.” 

“Your assignment?” Hunter prompts. His voice is tight and gruff. 

You sigh, affecting a Coruscanti accent. “Second Lieutenant Cen Thule, Imperial Corps of Engineering. Reporting to inspect structural integrity of interior block designs.” 

“You don’t sound like you,” Wrecker says, “but you still look like you under that hat.” 

Humming in thought, you cast about for any ideas. Your gaze alights on Tech’s goggles. “Tech?” 

“Yes?”

“You got a spare pair of goggles I could borrow?” 

He hesitates. “Perhaps.” 

“Could I borrow them?” you ask. 

Tech glances at Hunter, who gestures loosely with one hand. Heaving a defeated sigh, Tech pushes past you to dig through his supply crate. After a moment, he produces an identical pair of goggles to the ones currently strapped to his face and passes it to you. You remove the gray cap to put the goggles on, adjusting the straps. You grimace at the unfocused view of the others through the yellow lenses. 

“Here,” Tech murmurs. He reaches with nimble fingers to fiddle with the small nobs on the sides of the goggles.

Your vision clears. You settle the cap back on your head once again, then tilt your head at Wrecker in curiosity. 

“That’s better!” 

“Just keep your head down in there,” Hunter says. 

“I always do.” 

He barks a short laugh. “Sure, cyare. Comm us if anything, and I mean anything, goes wrong. Alright?” 

“Of course, sarge,” you say, a nervous smile ghosting your features as anxiety begins to beat at your stomach. 

Hunter sighs and jerks his head at the other two. Wrecker sweeps you into his signature bone-crushing hug, popping your back. 

“Come back safe, Nav,” the gentle giant rumbles, soft and worried. “Keep Crosshair safe, too.” 

“I will, big guy,” you say, patting his back. “You know I will.” 

Sniffling, Wrecker sets you back on your feet, before shuffling to the cockpit. Tech offers you a nod and warm smile, then wordlessly disappears into the cockpit. 

When the door slides shut, Hunter strides to you and envelops you in a tight hug. In your arms, he shakes. You burrow into the curve of his shoulder, breathing his familiar warm, heady scent in, twining your fingers into his hair. 

“Hey,” you murmur, “I’ve got this. We’ll be back before you know it.” 

He presses his face into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply. “I couldn’t stand it if I lost you.” His voice breaks. “Both of you.” 

Stroking his dark curls, twisting your fingers around the thick locks, you sigh. “You won’t lose us.” 

“I’m giving you 24 hours,” he says, “and then I’m coming to get you.” 

“Deal.” 

As if to seal the deal, he presses a warm, desperate kiss to your lips, cupping your face in both hands. You melt into him; his mouth is greedy against yours, both of you silently preparing for the worst, but choosing to cling to hope. Such is the nature of the fight against the Empire. 

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours. Something warm and wet drips onto your cheeks.

“I—” you both begin at the same time. 

You chuckle, eyes peeking open, heart breaking at the tears streaming down his face. “You first.” 

“No, you, mesh’la.” 

Gnawing at the inside of your cheek for a moment, you nod. “I was gonna say, I am so glad that I met you all.” 

“Don’t,” he pleads, voice catching, “don’t say that like it’s goodbye.” 

“It’s not goodbye,” you say. “I just...wanted to say it. Before I go.” 

He nods, accepting your faulty logic, and holds you against him until the ship drops out of hyperspace. When he releases you, you blink up at him, confusion nagging at you. 

“What were you going to say, before?” you ask. 

“Oh.” He ducks his head. “I— It’s nothing.” 

“Hunter,” you whine. Squeezing his hand, you catch his downcast gaze. “Please?” 

“Just...” He sighs. “K’oyacyi, (y/n).” 

You frown at the unfamiliar word, but before you can ask what it means, Tech’s voice calls from the cockpit. “Entering the atmosphere now. Nav, three minutes to jump.” 

Just like that, Hunter’s eyes, usually so bright and expressive, shutter against the coming storm. He steps back from you with one final press of your hand. 

Shaking your head to clear it, you pat your pockets to ensure you have everything. One of your blasters is concealed at your back under the baggy Imperial coat; your old Imperial badge is tucked safely in one pocket. Hopefully you won’t need it; if anyone looks at it too closely, this entire plan falls to pieces before it even begins. 

When the door of the Marauder hisses open, blasting you back with a wave of fresh, humid air, you glance once more at Hunter. You offer a half-smile, one that he returns. Then you step forward, grab the rappelling rope, and step off the edge to lower to the jungle below.

You begin to see signs of the Empire early on in your trek. Massive trees felled, deep gouges in the earth where walkers have trampled through, blaster scoring on tree trunks used as target practice: the Empire is here, and intends to stay. Wiping sweat from your face, you peer through the thick tangle of tree branches to glimpse the towering mountain looming ahead of you. 

Tech had set you down a few hours’ march south of the base. All you have to do is walk towards the mountain—a simple navigation job, one even you can’t kriff up. Thankfully, the trail of disturbed environment is easy enough to follow, even if the peak soaring through the clouds wasn’t indicator enough. 

You’ve only ever seen one mountain before, and you honestly aren’t sure it even qualifies anymore. Umate, on Coruscant, is said to be the only place where you can see the actual planet’s surface, not just the durasteel superstructure built higher and higher over millennia. Umate’s summit only ever stood half a dozen feet taller than you. But this? In the gaps between branches, you have to force yourself not to focus too long on the way that this behemoth of a mountain stretches into the sky, its broad, conical shape bigger than any planetary formation ought to be. You’ve only experienced megalophobia once in your life before, in the cargo hold of an Imperial light cruiser, but this mountain is almost enough to dredge up a surge of nausea. 

Shaking your head, you tune back into your surroundings. You’ve reached what seems to be the perimeter—at least, you assume that’s what this worn footpath is. The path sweeps in a broad arc left and right of your position. You hunker down here for a while, hoping to determine a patrol schedule, but after a solid half hour, there seems to be no movement. No sign of anyone, or any other living beings. And it’s sweltering beneath the canopy. You doff your cap to wipe beads of sweat from your brow, before repositioning it and standing cautiously upright. 

When blaster fire doesn’t come screaming out of the trees ahead of you, you take a few steps forward, straining all of your senses. 

There’s nothing. Only the faintest breeze tickles the tops of the trees, swaying their branches and sighing between their rustling leaves. 

Within another hour you reach the true edge of the base. Ahead, through the thinning trees, a manmade landing pad holds various stacked supply crates, all stamped in scuffed blank ink, “IMPERIAL SUPPLY CORPS” with the circular emblem of the Empire. You curl your lip in distaste. Surveying the clearing, there is no movement; you dart to the nearest crates bent double, skidding to a halt next to the boxes. 

Breathing evenly through your nose to keep noise to a minimum, you finally hear voices carry from across the small clearing. 

“...receive another shipment today,” one of the voices, a man’s, is saying. 

“More Stormtrooper armor?” another voice responds, a more feminine one, with a sarcastic lilt. 

“Probably,” says the man. “May as well hang around here until the shipment comes in. Shouldn’t be long.” 

Their conversation moves on to other things; you only half listen, keeping an ear out for additional pieces of information. Clearly the supply drop can’t be that far away or these two Imps wouldn’t risk lingering here—and this shipment could be exactly what you need to get inside. 

Shifting as slowly as you dare so your foot doesn’t fall asleep, you snag a loose rock from the dirt. Based on where their voices come from, neither Imp seems to have moved much closer to your position. That’s good. You need a moment to think, to assess. 

You wish Omega were here. Her natural knack for strategizing would be a blessing here; you could use her advice right about now. Then you shake your head. You’re on your own here, and there’s no use in bemoaning the situation. 

From your viewpoint, you’ve got two options. First, you wait for the shipment to arrive and then sneak in with it somehow—a mildly feasible option, dependent on there being enough other activity to hide the addition of a new body to the mix. Second, you take down these two Imps, hide their bodies, and process the shipment on your own. After all, you had been assigned as a supply officer. Surely, the procedures haven’t changed that much since you graduated from the academy. 

With a silent, encouraging nod to yourself, you slowly ease your blaster out from your waistband and switch the safety off. You inch to the edge of the crates to peer around them briefly. A flash of the clearing reveals numerous other stacks of boxes, and the two figures in different areas. One logs data with his back to you about 40 feet away; the other scans a manifest list much closer at hand. 

You toss the rock you’d grabbed at a diagonal so it skitters across the ground toward the woman; in the same movement, you shrink back behind the crates. The woman curses quietly in surprise, and, thankfully, doesn’t call out to her compatriot. Already you’ve selected another rock. When you think she’s focused on the initial distraction, you toss the second, this one only a few feet from you. It bounces on the hard ground. 

“Who’s there?” she calls. Her footsteps approach rapidly, then she comes into your field of vision. 

You lunge up and to the right, yanking her off-balance by her extended arm, trying to get her onto the ground with you. She grunts in surprise, stumbling. You use the momentum to sweep your feet in a scything motion—she faceplants into the hard-packed dirt. On top of her in a flash, you kneel on her wrists, shoving her blaster away. Wrapping your arm around her throat, you lock in a vise grip. 

Blood pounds in your ears and you have to concentrate on your surroundings. The other Imp doesn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss. In your solid grip, the woman struggling below you slowly falls still, and finally goes completely limp. 

You fish under her body for her security codes, and snag two cylinders. For the hell of it, you also unclip her rank insignia and scavenge her ID badge. If she were to tuck her hair back a certain way, she’d resemble you close enough to pass cursory visual inspections. And you’re confident enough in people’s abilities to overlook incorrect details when they have no reason to suspect them. 

Pinning the rank badge on your left breast pocket, you slip code cylinders into place. The ID reads Corr Pelleon, and marks her as one rank higher than your assumed identity. You commit the woman’s details to memory as you shuffle back into hiding behind the crates. 

Not a moment too soon. “Hey, Pelleon, where’d you go?” 

You remain silent. Steadying your breathing once more, you close your eyes, picturing the landing field in your mind’s eye, placing the man where you last saw him. Then, eyes popping open, you stand, aim, correct, and fire in one fluid motion. 

The stun blast collides with the man before he has a chance to even register what hit him, and the second bolt sends him tumbling back, limp, against the ground. Switching the safety back on, you tuck the blaster away before rushing to the man’s body to nab his credentials as well. 

By the time the supply ship arrives, you’ve hidden and trussed the bodies and barely managed to access the information terminal. Schematics and blueprints of the mountain facility spin by fast enough to make your head hurt. A stone of dread sinks into your stomach as you absorb just how many tunnels, hallways, and access doors comprise this base. Maybe you should have listened to Tech. Maybe this is more than you can handle. 

Thankfully, your initial assumption about supply protocols was correct: they haven’t changed since your defection. Any clerical mistakes, the actual Corr Pelleon can deal with. Now, inside the base, every nerve in your body sings with nervous energy, on high alert. You keep your gaze averted even as you glance around constantly. You just need to find a security terminal. 

The halls here are about as clean and uniform as those of the academy; the sudden feeling of being trapped inside this gargantuan mountain base rises up and nearly suffocates you. Your hands shake where they hang by your sides, palms sweaty. It’s with near superhuman effort that you yank your frantic, racing thoughts to a halt with a stern command: Enough. You have a job to do. You have people counting on you. 

Risking a quick glance around, you raise your head just enough to gauge your surroundings. Imperials, most dressed like you in plain gray uniforms, stalk past you without a second glance. Ahead, your quarry awaits you. You try not to make an obvious beeline for the security terminal. Wiping your hands on your pants, you slip the lower-clearance security code cylinders into the proper ports, and hold your breath. 

The glowing green menu that pops up is familiar. Re-accessing the floor plans, you learn you’re on level 35 of 50; one is at the top, with the prisoner barracks spread over three floors: 14, 15, and 16. With a swallow past the cracked dryness in your throat, you take a long moment to memorize the most direct path to a lift that will take you where you need. 

Unplugging from the terminal, you turn—

And nearly collide with a woman with goggles that nearly match your own, her dark hair swept back into a neat, military-regulation protocol. 

You flinch so hard you’re surprised you don’t sprain your neck. “Dank ferrik!” 

“I beg your pardon?” the woman says, her voice lilting up in surprise. 

“Sorry, I—” You cut yourself off, at the last moment remembering to pitch your voice in an approximation of the real Corr Pelleon’s. “I was startled, is all. It won’t happen again.” 

She says nothing more as you sidestep and hurry away, not daring to look back. You curse yourself mentally for not paying more attention. Alas, there is nothing to be done about it now. Shoving away the frayed ends of your nerves, you walk as quickly as is polite to the nearest lifts and key in for the detention levels after the door slides shut. The access panel prompts you for security clearance. 

“Please work,” you mutter as you remove the other, higher-clearance cylinders from your pocket. There’s a terrible moment where nothing happens, and you brace for an alarm to go off, but then the panel chimes and the lift smoothly ascends. 

For a brief moment, you allow yourself to slump against the cool metal wall. You desperately want to contact the squad, update them on your progress, make sure they haven’t made any rash decisions in the few hours you’ve been gone. But any non-Imperial signals are sure to be intercepted as soon as they transmit. Too risky.

When the doors ding open at the first level of the prison blocks, floor 16, you come face to face with a white plastoid helmet. The design is not one you’ve ever seen before. Trying to keep the shock off your face, you nod once to the armored figure and step past them. Their head turns with your movement, but you keep walking, eyes straight ahead. Only when the lift doors whoosh shut once more do you risk a glance back—finding the same trooper still watching you. 

Mustering your most disdainful scoff, you resume walking, clasping your hands behind your back, a move your academy instructors used to use. The trooper does not call after you. 

The cells here remind you of the one you inhabited on Coruscant. Their entrances are cut at just the right angle to obscure the prisoners from one another and isolate them. Red electroshield doors hum, a constant barrier. 

You can’t help but glance into each cell as you pass. The first handful hold unfamiliar figures, most of them curled up or sitting against the stiff bench at the back of the room, their heads bowed. Most, though, seem to either be asleep, or perhaps drugged, their bodies limp against the benches, heads lolled toward the cell entrances. And the farther you walk, the more familiar the faces become. 

Clones. 

“What in the Sith-blazing hells?” you mutter. Checking for more armored guards, you step up to one of the cells. 

“Psst.” The clone inside doesn’t respond. “Hey.” 

When there’s still no response, you squint, studying the reclined figure just long enough to make sure he’s breathing. At the very least, he is; you feel the knot of trepidation fade just a hair. Huffing a sigh, you peer back the way you came. You’re supposed to find Crosshair in all this? 

You force yourself to stop and think. Logically, higher-security prisoners would be kept separate from the general population. You need to go up. 

Your stolen codes get you to level 14. Outside the door, another armored figure  stands at parade rest between the two lifts; another two guard  either end of the cell blocks. Even as your heart thuds in your chest, easily loud enough for these guards to hear, you feel a rush of gratitude that Hunter listened to you on this and let you come alone. There’s no way any of them would have made it this far. Not with so many of their brothers in cells. 

The guard to the left blocks your path when you try to move in that direction. “State your business.” 

You pitch your voice again to resemble your faux identity. “I’ve orders to retrieve CT-9904.” 

“I wasn’t informed of any transfers,” the trooper says. You sense more than hear the other guards behind you shift their weight towards you. 

“Really,” you say as drily as you can, arching one eyebrow. “I wasn’t informed that you needed to know such information, trooper.” 

There’s a tense, silent moment where you fear you’ve pushed too far. But then the figure reluctantly takes a step back. You don’t acknowledge them any further, your entire body flushed and thrumming with adrenaline. Sending a quiet thanks to the Maker, and even to the Force, you scurry down the hall. 

You pass by a few dozen more clones, but the majority of the cells on this level are empty. None of the prisoners pay you any heed as you rush past them, glancing in just long enough to confirm that your quarry is not in them. You know you’re getting close to another set of lifts. You doubt your ability to bluff your way out of another potential conflict. Is Crosshair even in this block? Panic threatens to overwhelm you again, cold and stinging. 

A familiar thin face flashes in your vision and registers a few seconds later. You skid to a halt. Nearly tripping over your own feet, you rush back to his cell. Inside, lying on the hard bench, is the sniper. 

“Crosshair?” you call softly. 

He doesn’t respond. You stifle the panic closing your throat and watch him for several seconds, like you did his brother on the lower level; he is breathing, thankfully. You move to one side of the doorway where the access panel is, and groan in despair. It requires three cylinders. A higher clearance than you currently have available. 

“Hells,” you grit out. 

A whoosh of lift doors sounds in your ears, and footsteps begin to approach. You retreat a few paces to make it look as though you’ve not just been lingering in front of one cell, trying to time it right. As the other person comes into view, you hope to look like you’ve been walking normally. 

But your heart skips one, two, three beats when the woman from earlier enters your line of vision. Ducking your head, hoping she doesn’t notice you, you try to slip past her. 

She lays a hand on your shoulder, stopping you. 

“What clearance do you have to be here, Second Lieutenant?” she asks. 

You raise your head to meet her steady gaze. She doesn’t seem angry or upset, but rather...curious. You wet your lips. “I, ah, just doing the rounds, ma’am.” 

She raises a manicured eyebrow. “Care to try that again?” 

“S-Sorry?” 

“If you’re here for Crosshair, I’m quite afraid that there is no way for him to escape,” she says, her tone remaining conversational, as if you’re discussing the weather. “He’s tried that already, and it did not go well for him.” 

Thoughts whirl through your mind. He’s already tried? When? How? Your heart soars when you realize that your assumption about him was correct—he wants out, and desperately. You decide to keep playing dumb, though. “I don’t— I don’t know what you’re—”

“Please,” she says, squeezing your shoulder painfully. “Spare us both the wasted time. You’re clearly not stationed here, or you wouldn’t need to pull up the floorplans on a public terminal. Which means that you’re either incredibly lost...” She tilts her head to the side. “Or here on business. Given your affiliation with Clone Force 99, I’d guess the latter.” 

Eyes widening, you know you’ve been made. There’s no way out of it. This woman could have dozens of troopers waiting on every level for you, blocking your escape before you can even make it out of the lift. But there’s something about her voice, the way she talks, that gives you pause yet. 

“Why are you telling me these things?” you ask, voice shaking.

“Because I do not wish to see him dead,” she says, and finally releases you. “I cannot say more than that. I’ve said too much already.” 

She steps back, and you follow. “Wait, please. How do you know he’ll die here?” 

She lets the silence drag on long enough for your brain to register what she isn’t saying. Being in this prison is, in fact, a death sentence for all the clones. When she breaks your gaze, you glance down at the three code cylinders resting against her chest. 

“Help me help him,” you say. 

She sighs and, after a moment, hands you the cylinders. “Make it count.”

“Thank you,” you say. Gripping the cylinders in one sweaty palm, you retrieve your blaster and stun her. Her body collapses to the durasteel floor. 

Her security clearance opens Crosshair’s cell without issue. The red electroshield barrier audibly powers down. Rushing down the steps, you sling one of Crosshair’s long arms over your shoulders and use all your strength to lift him upright. He groans softly. 

“Crosshair,” you say, peering up into his slack face. “Cross, wake up.” 

He groans again, but does not otherwise stir. Setting your jaw, you take an experimental step forward, his dead weight dragging you into an awkward stance. But you won’t call for the squad yet. Not without any certainty of how to get out of this Force-forsaken place. 

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[thescarecrowfrombatman]

FAQ

Hey guys it's me the Scarecrow from Batman.

DNI if you're the Joker or the Penguin because I don't like either of you.

TRIGGER WARNING FOR:

Scopophobia Hemophobia myriapodophobia Melissophobia spheksophobia vehophobia automatoraphobia arachnophobia carnophobia proditiophobia ophidiophobia autophobia herpetophobia kenophobia paruresis scoleciphobia aibohphobia ornithophobia pantaphobia thanatophobia amaxophobia somniphobia epidoptorophobia nyctophobia catoprophobia monophobia musophobia autophobia sygiophobia chronophobia diokophobia metathesiophobia amathaphobia gamophobia melanoheliophobia glossophobia anthropophobia globophobia atychiphobia eurotophobia taphophobia trypanophobia formidophobia hoofdaphobia paraskevidokatriaphobia carcerophobia alluraphobia cynophobia antomophobia pugophobia equinophobia chiroptophobia genuphobia podophobia gynophobia haphephobia capgras,syndrome muxiphobia mirephobia acrophobia coulrophobia filophobia cafephobia aerophobia thalassaphobia itchyophobia ergophobia bovinophobia algophobia foniaphobia agoraphobia dementophobia amaxophobia Galaphobia Androphobia Acousticophobia Anginophobia microphobia anthophobia astraphobia ataxophobia apeirophobia Atelophobia dipsophobia phobophobia (Did I say that one already?... agh, nevermind) anatidaephobia mysophobia myrmecophobia barophobia kabourophobia botanophobia mycophobia cacophobia galeophobia chromophobia sonophobia cyberphobia kyrofelanoshopophobia dendrophobia dentophobia dometiphobia ecophobia megalophobia noctiphobia obesiphobia samhainophobia hombrephobia pathophobia elaiophobia heliophobia hydrophobia hypochondria lycophobia melanophobia microphobia (Did I say that one already too? Damn.) Sanchephobia (New one I made for the fear of pickles.)

Anyway, Ask box is open I guess.

[redscorpiocat]

//C.T.W. (Content trigger warning) SLIT NECK AND DISTURBING IMAGERY//

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Dakota's Madness form

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Standing the size of of a 40 foot tall entity, yet weights the same as a commercial airline, Dakota's Madness form can be the stuff of megalophobia... She can take those that have caused trauma and depression, and make them watch the mistakes they did until they confess everything... Including their backstory and history of events...

Dakota never wanted to show her madness form to anyone... She even keeps it hidden from Sweet Pea because he fears that everything in her madness form will make everyone horrifyingly traumatized horribly fast because of her form's too far gone state...

So she keeps it hidden from the rest of the world. But she still fears that one day it'll break free and take her victims to her realm, just to see if they can survive reliving their mistakes all over again...

She fears that it'll happen, but hopefully it won't...

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R-right?...

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